much. The SEAL psyche was not giving up any of its secrets today.
“Do you have to say it like that? It’s not like I didn’t perform,” he teased. “Next time.”
“Sure.” She smiled briefly. “Listen, I’ve got another client in five minutes. Would you like to use my shower and then go out the back?”
He nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Thanks for, uh, fitting me in.”
“Get out of here!” she laughed. The man was all puns and bad humor. She watched him leave and then she stripped the paper off the headrest of the chair. Perhaps she was too vested in the outcome. If she let go a little more, maybe it would help. Or was the personal approach the way to go? Whatever it was going to be, she had to switch focus to her next patient.
***
Jack stood beneath the shower, reveling in the pounding hot spray as he reviewed the session. When Laurie touched the small scars on his head, he had felt something. It was foggy, indefinable, and yet hanging there at the edge of his consciousness.
Turning off the water, he reached for a towel and rubbed it over his body. Securing it at his hips, he entered Laurie’s small apartment and helped himself to a beer. He took a long draw from the bottle and looked around at Laurie’s personal space.
Jack had seen her apartment the other night. It was on the small side, yet he liked it.
A queen-size bed was pushed into one corner and there was a working wood stove with a small woodbin next to it. The kitchen consisted of a single counter along one wall with a medium-size fridge and a small two-burner stove. A television was mounted on the opposite wall, with a beat-up leather couch and a couple of chairs perched in front.
Stacks of books in milk crates lined the walls in colorful disarray, and piles of movies were on the DVD player, which was balanced on an antique sewing desk. Knitting needles and yarn were stacked in a basket alongside it. A sweater was three-quarters completed with the needles poking out, waiting. Maybe he’d ask her to knit him a gun cozy.
Grinning, he lay down on the bed. Resting the bottle next to him, he picked up one of the tiny recorders Laurie used for her sessions. He turned it on, placed it next to his beer, and then stretched his arms over his head and closed his eyes. “Hey, Laurie, you’re probably only going to get several hours of my snoring, but I’m giving this alternative stuff a try, so you’ll just have to suffer.”
Using a trick he’d learned in training to block out the world, he counted one —breathing in through his nose—and two —breathing out through his mouth. Over and over he did it until his breathing steadied and he stopped counting altogether.
Chapter 6
A leader is a man who has the ability to get other people to do what they don’t want to do, and like it.
—Harry S. Truman
Laurie’s day dragged by at a snail’s pace. She had looked at the clock a hundred times, and she finally admitted to herself that this was one of the rare times she longed to have the workday over. She loved her job, and each client was a personal investment of time, research on his or her case, and careful guidance. Today, though, she was anxious to have the appointments complete so she could prepare for Jack’s session tonight. It had been hard for her to kiss him good-bye and watch him leave just a few hours earlier.
Funny that she thought of it as a session and not as a lover who needed help. Was she kidding herself about crossing the line between therapy and involvement? Probably, but he definitely needed professional assistance. Brought on by an actual head injury and emotional trauma, acute psychological suppression was nothing to sneeze at. A patient could suffer from the memory block his whole life. The good news was that there were many ways to work with the patient, from the benign to the controversial, but the bad news was that Jack seemed reluctant to take advantage of the team of medical doctors available to him at Balboa.
“Do you have to say it like that? It’s not like I didn’t perform,” he teased. “Next time.”
“Sure.” She smiled briefly. “Listen, I’ve got another client in five minutes. Would you like to use my shower and then go out the back?”
He nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Thanks for, uh, fitting me in.”
“Get out of here!” she laughed. The man was all puns and bad humor. She watched him leave and then she stripped the paper off the headrest of the chair. Perhaps she was too vested in the outcome. If she let go a little more, maybe it would help. Or was the personal approach the way to go? Whatever it was going to be, she had to switch focus to her next patient.
***
Jack stood beneath the shower, reveling in the pounding hot spray as he reviewed the session. When Laurie touched the small scars on his head, he had felt something. It was foggy, indefinable, and yet hanging there at the edge of his consciousness.
Turning off the water, he reached for a towel and rubbed it over his body. Securing it at his hips, he entered Laurie’s small apartment and helped himself to a beer. He took a long draw from the bottle and looked around at Laurie’s personal space.
Jack had seen her apartment the other night. It was on the small side, yet he liked it.
A queen-size bed was pushed into one corner and there was a working wood stove with a small woodbin next to it. The kitchen consisted of a single counter along one wall with a medium-size fridge and a small two-burner stove. A television was mounted on the opposite wall, with a beat-up leather couch and a couple of chairs perched in front.
Stacks of books in milk crates lined the walls in colorful disarray, and piles of movies were on the DVD player, which was balanced on an antique sewing desk. Knitting needles and yarn were stacked in a basket alongside it. A sweater was three-quarters completed with the needles poking out, waiting. Maybe he’d ask her to knit him a gun cozy.
Grinning, he lay down on the bed. Resting the bottle next to him, he picked up one of the tiny recorders Laurie used for her sessions. He turned it on, placed it next to his beer, and then stretched his arms over his head and closed his eyes. “Hey, Laurie, you’re probably only going to get several hours of my snoring, but I’m giving this alternative stuff a try, so you’ll just have to suffer.”
Using a trick he’d learned in training to block out the world, he counted one —breathing in through his nose—and two —breathing out through his mouth. Over and over he did it until his breathing steadied and he stopped counting altogether.
Chapter 6
A leader is a man who has the ability to get other people to do what they don’t want to do, and like it.
—Harry S. Truman
Laurie’s day dragged by at a snail’s pace. She had looked at the clock a hundred times, and she finally admitted to herself that this was one of the rare times she longed to have the workday over. She loved her job, and each client was a personal investment of time, research on his or her case, and careful guidance. Today, though, she was anxious to have the appointments complete so she could prepare for Jack’s session tonight. It had been hard for her to kiss him good-bye and watch him leave just a few hours earlier.
Funny that she thought of it as a session and not as a lover who needed help. Was she kidding herself about crossing the line between therapy and involvement? Probably, but he definitely needed professional assistance. Brought on by an actual head injury and emotional trauma, acute psychological suppression was nothing to sneeze at. A patient could suffer from the memory block his whole life. The good news was that there were many ways to work with the patient, from the benign to the controversial, but the bad news was that Jack seemed reluctant to take advantage of the team of medical doctors available to him at Balboa.
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